


Precision and Presumption

by RadioCybertron



Series: Lock, Stock and Smoking Barrels [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, More tags to be added as I pull stuff off of Tumblr and onto here, NSFW, Schmoop, gun!kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:33:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioCybertron/pseuds/RadioCybertron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renown and infamous as a warlord and tyrant, Megatron is trying to make his way on the Lost Light. Unfortunately, things like life and day-to-day causalities keep getting in the way of redemption. A series of one-shots and drabbles based around the Lost Light and some of it's lesser sane inhabitants. Namely, all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sniper

**Author's Note:**

> Lock, stock and two smoking barrels- what happens when you break a gun, or a mech down to his component parts?

“What’s the word.”  
  
_“Tyger Pax”_  
  
The name of his greatest shame, and his greatest failure rolls off his glossa like thick oil. He shifts his weight, staring down at his pedes, the wall to his side. Anything but the tall, slim mech with the gaze that can bore past his chestplate and into his spark. Rung wouldn’t have understood what he’s asking, at least, not in the way he’s asking. He knows the scientist will not speak, will not utter a word past these walls. He is desperate, so very needful of this one thing. Starscream would have used it against him, would still use it against him. Being the leader of Cybertron is not enough, and he knows the fool would delight in his _total_ humiliation.  
  
“Very well. Transform then.”  
  
He almost rankles at the authoritative tone, the old mannerisms trying to stir themselves with a rattle of dragon’s teeth and scales before he soothes them. Down, down, down, mass shifting and displacing. Twisting time and time again until he rests on the floor as not a miniature version of himself…

but instead the high-powered hand-gun that he been originally forged as.  
  
His plating twitches, having not assumed this aspect of his abilities in such a long time. Before Prime, Before Tyger Pax, before… Starscream. Before the Pits, Before the Mines. His plating twitches again, raising with the field emanating from the gentle hand that ever so carefully lifts him up. He cannot see in this form, he cannot talk and he cannot move. He can respond via comm and he can hear.  
  
“We begin, now.”  
  
Perceptor’s tone is soft, softer than he thought it would be as they begin. He twitches in surprise as a warm cloth slides over the outer casing. This is no hasty wipe and scrub. This is a slow, careful detail and polish over the tip of his barrel, down the length, over the sight at the tip and towards stock. It is gentle, languid and warm.  
  
He would moan if he could.   
  
“Fine craftmanship,” the sniper murmurs, one hand busy carefully holding him while the other continues to slowly slide the metalmesh cleaning cloth over smudged metal.   
  
“I wonder who commissioned you. You obviously weren’t crafted to be just a miner. Not with a sight as sensitive as this, and a long slim barrel with the proper venting for releasing heat.”   
  
The metal warms underneath the sniper’s finger as he traces over those vents, thumb brushing along the trigger housing and over the trigger itself. He fancies he can feel it twitching and smiles gently. Once the preliminary rub down is finished, he begins the second stage.  
  
“Remember, I’m going to break you down for proper cleaning. I’m going to make sure each piece goes right back where it should and I’m going to oil and lubricate you. It’s such a shame that such a fine work of art should be treated so shabbily,” he murmurs as he twists and flicks here and there, breaking down the mech a literal piece at a time. It fascinates him how the mech can come apart, and still live. His fingers run over the disconnected barrel, feeling the stock and fuel housing. The mech’s spark should be right… here.  
  
Ah, there it is.  
  
He is careful and meticulous as he breaks Megatron down piece by piece, each component part laid out by it’s brethren. Eighteen pieces lay scattered out methodically around him, and he pauses long enough to brush this piece, or that- one hand still on the barrel to feel the shiver of spark and field. Old scars here and there crisscross metal, and he brushes over that as well to feel the ridges and differences.  
  
“They used you very poorly. Shot you off, and put you back. Never cleaning. All good tools must be cleaned properly. Oiled and slid back into their proper places. You miss your proper place, don’t you? You miss being in the hand of a Master, the finger at your trigger with just the slightest tightening?”  
  
He smiles as the shivers increase, reaching for the oil. He works onto nimble fingers, and begins to work it into the metal, starting with the barrel casing first and working his way inward towards the main housing where the spark chamber rests. He continues to speak the entire time, and is rather surprised at how much he is enjoying himself as well. Megatron has always presented a bastion of control and calm on board ship, and a paragon of strength and ruthlessness outside of it.  
  
But here?  
  
Ah, here he is simply a scared tool in need of proper care.   
  
He allows his voice to drop an octave and then into a soft, rough whisper. “I suppose I could keep you, if you would let me. We could go to the range together. My hands are steady and warm, and I would take very good care of you.”  
  
That completely undoes the warlord, and for the first time he finds himself comming out the safeword- not to stop the scene, but to communicate. The scientist pauses in his cleaning as they exchange a soft, swift communique before he very quietly eases the gun back together and they head to the range together.   
  
Megatron is ashamed to say that it does not take him long to overload, and that even after they fire his energy cell empty- he does not return back to base form. Instead, he recharges that night in warmth and comforted- nested in the cup made from Perceptor’s hands.  
  
It’s the first full night’s recharge he has in four million years.


	2. I'll Be Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When all of the universe contains your faults, even the shadows cannot hide you anymore. Megatron knows this better than anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is known as the song that got me punched by my girlfriend- HanaNoir. Spoilers for Issue 50-51

_I’ve been cold, I’ve been merciless_   
_But the blood on my hands scares me to death_   
_Maybe I’m waking up today_

He knows that he can’t let Rodimus go out. 

It’s suicide and murder, and cacophony in his helm that have been screaming merely change pitch- becoming a single voice. 

Rodimus will die. 

It’s a mantra that he repeats over and over in his processor. It crowds out other worries, though he watches the rest of the crew from the sides of his optics. He watches Magnus talk about staying and fighting, he watches Rodimus try to bolster their spirits.

He watches Cyclonus bring Swerve and Tailgate to himself to protect them, and Ten trying to cover Rung in his shadow, as if guarding. He wonders if Brainstorm is trying to figure out how to contact Perceptor, as those two were as thick as thieves after the trial.

And if anyone can get to Ratchet, or Drift- though he knows in no uncertain terms that the ex-Decepticon would just as soon behead him as help him. He brings a hand up to trace the back of his neckstrut, touching the faint lines of his throat and cables.

It’s amazing just how alive one can feel once they realize that everyone else in the known ‘verse wants them dead, except for just a select number of people. He stares back over at the small knot of frightened crew members, and exhales. 

Tarn has read _Towards Peace_ , and he’s following the script- word for word. He’s following the plan and igniting fear the only way he knows how, but it’s not original. It’s not clever. He knows what it is because he _wrote_ it. If he had a lifetime, if he had more than just a few joors- he could think of a strategy around it, he could figure it out. 

But with the Fool’s Energon and the stress, and the screaming- he can’t think straight, and it makes him dig his fingertips into his helm a little more. 

 _Rodimus is going to die._  

He can’t shake the thought as it lodges into his processor like one of Bombshell’s cerebro-shells. It sticks and invades thought-trees and process lines like a virus, make him physically sick to his tanks. He feels his intakes speeding up, ventilations and spark going erratic and making his frame feel light and dizzy. 

This is what panic feels like, and it’s been a long time- it’s been since _Messatine_ since he’s felt this all-encompassing terror, this helplessness. He allows it to wash over him in a black tide, to ebb back and forth- because if he tries to stop it, he’ll call attention to himself.

And the last thing he wants is for them to see him like this.

In the darkness, hidden by the crates and the smear of energon and sentio metallico that used to be Censure- he hides, praying to a deity he wonders if can even hear him anymore. He chants softly, words falling from his lips in a desperate prayer, or maybe it’s an apology. 

All he can hope is that Primus can hear him, and help.

But he doesn’t have much hope, and time is ticking down.

It’s almost sunset.

  _————————–_

_I’ll be good, I’ll be good_   
_And I’ll love the world, like I should_   
_Yeah, I’ll be good, I’ll be good_   
_For all of the times I never could._


	3. Oh Brightest Sun.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh brightest sun, oh darkest night- or, the one time that Rodimus could actually do poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done for @Larrydraws on Tumblr. <3

It’s a well-known fact that since the “Swerveageddon” incident that Rodimus likes human music. Specifically that he likes singing the most obnoxious, loud songs that he can find. It’s a genre he calls “Pop Music” and Megatron calls “Processor aches from the Pit.” 

The worst part is that sometimes, in the dead of the recharge cycle- when he’s working what’s so eloquently termed the “graveyard shift” for Magnus, that Rodimus likes to sing over the intercoms.

For an unpolished piece of guttersnipe from Nyon, he’s got a damned nice voice- though Megatron would never admit it to the little egomaniac’s face. Especially since they’ve embarked on this …thing, relationship, fiasco-in-the-making, whateveritis. Rodimus _thrives_ on praise, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to glut him when it’s not worth it. 

That’s what turned Starscream into what he became, and it makes his tanks twist painfully at that idea. That’s the last thing he wants. 

His helm comes up as he hears the shipwide intercom come on, and some version of “It’s Hip to be a Square” starts playing. He snorts derisively, settling down to his desk and beginning his work, when his _internal_ comm comes online.

_“Oh, sweetest love- of purest flame.”_

The frag?

_Against you, the stars are tame._

This is… not a song. His optics shutter rapidly as he tries to figure out just exactly what’s going on. His fingers brush over his data-pad, turning it off with a soft _click_. His helm turns to one side as he listens to the soft tenor in his audial. 

_Our fields intertwine together, vents sighing._

It hits him, a moment later- what it is. His optics widen and he covers his mouth with a hand as he struggles not to make a noise that might be undignified. It’s _his_ poetry. He had recently been using Rodimus as both a muse, and a sounding board for some of the better (or worse) ones.

_Frame to frame, passion undying._

He clutches the table as he pushes up, beginning to pace the room. It’s not even one of his _good_ poems, either. Why would Rodimus pick _thi_ s one out of all the ones he’s given to him? He brings both hands up, scrubbing his faceplates as he tries to pretend it’s not affecting him.

_My lips devour,_ _your softest cry._

He’s failing miserably in that department. Surely this is some gigantic joke and Rodimus is going to burst in here with his signature pose, and laugh and tell him that “Aw, come on- Megs!” in that God-awful snide tone he uses when he’s trying to cover up his own insecurities.

_You are the sun, far-flung you fly._

Nope. This is not happening, there is NO way Rodimus is singing this like… like one of his Primal Hymns. There is no way. He hasn’t even hadn’t had lessons from Cyclonus about this. There is no way he should know how to chant like that, how to sing in such glorious, _beautiful_ tones. 

_Burning and brilliant, blazing and gold_

Except… that once upon a time, he touched the very aspect of Primus, didn’t he? That thought stills him, pausing his pacing. He shakes himself, armor flaring out in distress as he tries to figure out why this is bothering (arousing) him so. Why it’s eating the back of his processor like an itch he can’t scratch. 

_Chasing shadows that are frigid and cold._

_Because you don’t deserve this kind of beauty,_ whispers the poisonous little voice of guilt in the back of his processor. _Because he’s giving you a gift that’s far greater than what you’ve given him in return- and you know it._

_Your hand in mind, your fire and flame_

He blinks as the lock-code to his habsuite is overridden, helm snapping up as he tries to arrange himself into a semblance of dignity before his guest can come in. Magnus would have knocked first, and no one else but Ravage knows the code.

Which means it can only be Rodimus.

_Burn me asunder, burn my shame._

He turns his helm as the other captain eases in, that glorious voice still singing sweetly over the comms- until Rodimus closes them down as he closes the distance between the two of them- touching first, as he always does. Megatron wonders why it is always he that returns the gestures, but never initiates them.

One hand comes to rest over the Autobot brand on his chestplates, the ghostly agony of the long-gone Decepticon sigil burning for just a moment near his sparkcase. It tastes like betrayal and ashes.

“ _You wash me anew, baptism by fire_ ,” sings Rodimus- this time out loud, and into his audial. The warm frame leaning against his, arm sliding around his neck, hand splaying over a shoulder. But it is he that rumbles back, arms tightening around that trim waist- whispering back. 

_“You are the glory, to which I aspire.”_

_–_

It’s four joors later, when Magnus finally rouses for his shift. He quietly pings Megatron for a copy of the schedule, blinking a bit owlishly as it’s returned with an automatic message and a copy already there. He replies to the message, sending a copy over to Rodimus- only to get an automatic ping back.

A faint smile creeps over his lips as he shuts down his comms, informing the crew that he’ll be taking both shifts today. Maybe later, Megatron wouldn’t mind reading some poetry to _him_. 


	4. Poetry Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron tries to use poetry to explain his relationship with Rodimus and finds that words don't fit the way that actions do. Sometimes they work, and sometimes they do not. But there's always a middle-ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @nsfw-squids-in-disguise on Tumblr. :)

He reads him poetry made out of exasperation and love. Sometimes the words don’t fit quite right in his mouth, but that’s all right. Rodimus fits against him in ways that his brand doesn’t. Words and phrases stick like broken promises and redemption tastes like wax and speed. It’s a strangely addicting combination.

He calls his little Prime the sun, for he shines so bright and burns against the condemnations and condescension that rails against him. Lost causes and lost phrases fight against his dentae, squirming new trails from his spark to his plating and finally to his hands. He finds salvation in the way that Rodimus sighs his designation.

Rodimus calls him his moon. He supposes that makes sense, for the moon orbits the sun in oblong phrases and phases that flings it wide, and draws it near. It’s an apt description of their not-a-relationship-relationship. He can’t say “I love you” but he can groan out words and the poetry of his sighs and snarls into his audials, and listen to Rodimus’s adoration in return.

He finds redemption in the way Rodimus burns his spark.

It’s never “I love you” or words of affection but a soft “As you wish.” A take-off from a far flung film that Rodimus once fell in love with, but that Megatron could understand. Humans are so fleeting and fickle, and Rodimus reminds him strongly of them, except…

Except…

Rodimus is the sun. 

A gravitational being of exceptional charisma and such _promise_ that he can no more help being drawn in than the planets that orbit far-flung stars. He is caught, captured, and ensnared so completely. He is the moon. Silvery and silent, and forever circling around the other. 

One day, they’ll fall into each other in a clash full of heat and destruction and violence. It will be glorious and sparkbreaking, and he will break up and shatter and fall to pieces upon the burning surface of his sun. But it is a devastation that he looks forward to, for nowhere else has he met someone that has consumed him so _utterly_. 

_For you are the sun,_   
_And I the moon._   
_And together we orbit the other._   
_Tandem in dance._   
_We will take the chance._   
_Bound to each other._   
_Forever._


	5. I have you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron and Rodimus don't always see eye to eye, and public displays of affection are hard to come by. But, there is no love that cannot be spoken some way, or somehow. He may never say I love you, but he finds other ways to show it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @larrydraws and @4theluvofnerds on Tumblr. <3

“Shhhh… I have you” is the breathy whisper against his lips as they rock back and forth, one hand sliding behind his helm to cup it as his struts loosen with each glide of the warm thickness inside of him. 

Fingertips tighten on those gun-metal gray shoulderstruts as they continue to shift, flowing back and forth together like tides. He hitches one leg up to curl around his waist, pede scraping the back of his thigh as the angle changes and his back arches. He can’t articulate, and the warmth and the press of the frame above him is doing things to his field, his processor, and his spark.

He feels like he’s falling, falling, falling… it’s vertigo, it’s amazing, and he never wants to stop. The hand behind his helm, the arm around his waist- they anchor him. 

“I have you… “ comes the promise again, deeper with that pronounced rasp that he adores so much, but can never tell him. He knows Megatron has him, has his frame, has his spark in the palm of his hands. He pours himself into the other mech’s frame, his field.

“Mmmm..nnnah.” But he can’t articulate how he feels, what he wants to say. His hands slide up from those shoulders to cup the older mech’s face, brushing thumbs over his lips as he pulls in breathy gasps through vents and mouth. And then Megatron shifts again, and all he can let out is an unintelligible cry as nodes snap to life, and the charge crests over them both. 

The lips near his audial find his own, covering and slanting to devour his cry, his overload and his bliss. He pours it out, rocking back against his partner, his cohort, his companion and his _lover_. 

“I have you.” He crests as the words are repeated against his lips, as Megatron chases his own overload in measured strokes. Blearily, as he holds onto the other mech and chases after his second…third?..overload- it hits him.

I have you…. _I love you._

He smiles, soaking in the other’s face as dentae grit and Megatron’s forehelm rests against his. He drinks in that expression, the field and milks it, as his body milks the spike within him. He takes it all, and gives it back in a rolling pulse of affection that startles the older mech for a moment.

And _he_ smiles.

And that’s when Rodimus realizes that _he’s_ in love.


	6. Do not go Gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We make our choices, and we made our stand. Together we fight, held hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for #50, and a gift for Dracoqueen22

_Do not go gentle into that good night,_  
_Old age should burn and rave at close of day;_  
_**Rage, rage** against the dying of the light._

 

He can’t believe it, actually- scratch that. Yes, he can believe it. The viewscreen is still blank in front of him, the low hum eminating from the console where Rewind’s servos hover over them. He can see Chromedome shifting to rest his servos on his shoulder-struts. Behind him, in various forms- he can hear misery from the fellow members of “Team Rodimus.”

Primus, it’s all his fault.

Nightbeat has already gone back over to where Censure lays in a puddle of his own oil and split duties. The sparkflowers are dying, their blue glow dimming slowly in the gloom. Inside lies death.

Outside lies certain death.

Rung and Ten are to his right, the former therapist leaning against the Legislator. The bigger mech’s arms are full of flowers, though some trail here and there on the ground. Now and again, Rung stops to pick them up mechanically and offer them back. He’s surprised Whirl hasn’t already started spouting some nonsense, or going off the wall like usual. Instead, he’s… quiet, almost depressed. Or…scared, though that’s not something he’d ever associate with the manic rotor.

And…Brainstorm, he has no idea where he’s gone off to- maybe he can make a weapon out of something. If they ever needed a miracle, they need it now.

He looks around, trying to see if he can find his shadows. Magnus is over by Velocity and Nautica, aiding them the best he can. Cyclonus has seated himself on the floor with a minibot on either side. 

And Megatron.

He’s never seen the mech so quiet, not even after the Tailgate incident. He’s off to himself, close to one of the tables to the back that houses what he thinks might be part of the Aquesitech. He wasn’t really paying attention when they mentioned what all of it was for. But it’s not hard to find the darkest shadow out of the gloom that pervades that part of the room.

Especially when that shadow is alone, not even Ravage to keep him company at the moment. 

“Hey.”

He’s rewarded as the dark helm jerks up a little, revealing those familiar crimson optics. He winces inwardly at how much of that fire is banked, and the thread of fear that laces that through the older mech’s field. The worst part of it is that’s not fear for _himself._  

“So, any idea of what we’re facing out there?”

The broad shoulders square up, vents blowing out a sigh- hot air rolling over them both.

“It’s the Decepticon Justice Division, and apparently a few of their supporters. There is no “we” in this, Rodimus. I will not have you implicated.”

He snorts quietly at that, crossing his arms over the bright plains of his chest armor- and gives the other mech a rueful look. 

“I think I’m already implicated, aren’t I? I mean, look at us. We’re stuck in a fortress of the dead together. I haven’t killed you, you haven’t killed me. The obvious answer is either we’re fragging or fighting.”

“…Rodimus.”

He brings his hands up, forestalling the other mech’s speech. He knows what’s coming. He knows what Megatron is trying to do, and for once- he’s going to get the first say in this. He pushes away from the wall, and brings one hand up to his chestplate to push him upright from where he lean forward.

“You listen to me, Megatron of Tarn. All my life, I’ve ran.” He moves forward until they’re chest to chest, and out of Magnus’s sight. He wouldn’t put it past the mech to cite rules, even in the face of death.

“All my life, I’ve ran,” he continues, lowering his voice- even as he raises his optics to look him in the faceplates. “When we started this…relationship thing. It was my idea to hide it, because I was ashamed. We’re going to _die_ , Megatron.”

He shifts again, lowering his helm to rest the yellow crest of it against the thick silver chestplates, exhaling as one arm comes around his waist.

“If… I’ve got to make a stand. I want to make it with you. Nyon. Kaon. We both watched the cities we love burn to the ground. You messed up, made choices you shouldn’t have. I ran, hurt people, took a ship. Kicked my best friend off that ship. We _fragged up_ , Megs.”

He looks up again, mouth settling into a thin line as those crimson optics stare down at him, the other’s vocalizer silent as he speaks.  
  
“But, we ain’t got nothing to hide anymore. No more mistakes. No more dancing around, casting blame. If we do this, we make a stand. We do it _together._ ”

There’s a faint, faint chuckle above him as a large chin-guard rests atop his helm, and those arms tighten around his waist. He’s drawn up, hips placed on one of the tables as the larger mech moves between his thighs to pull him closer against him.

“Till all are one, then?”

He nods at that, other arm draping around his neck as he rests against him in the shadows. He doesn’t know how long this moment, this bubble of peace is going to last. He knows that eventually they will have to step out that door, that hell is going to break loose.

That eventually what prices owed will be paid innocence and energon. 

But for this moment, this slight breath of time- he rests against the former warlord with tight arms, and a solid promise.

“Till all are one.”


End file.
